


what does it take to earn my stripes (bloodshed, it seems.)

by cancerthecrabbo



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Attack, Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Episode Tag: s03ep03 Prey, Fatherly Thursday, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Loneliness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical hurt/comfort, Prey - Freeform, Protective Thursday, Spoilers, Violence, Whump, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancerthecrabbo/pseuds/cancerthecrabbo
Summary: “When it jumps, you run,” Morse’s voice rings out desperately.  There is no hope to be found in remaining quiet, therefore his voice, unsteady and full of finality, is loud in an unfamiliar way.The tiger’s muscles bunch and it leaps forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if it's canon but I did some half-assed math and decided that Morse is 29...? I don't know. Also, I'm not British and I don't know anyone that can help me brit-pick. Regardless, enjoy!

When Thursday rounds the edge of the bush to face the clearing in the heart of the maze, his stomach drops and his chest clenches at what he sees.  The bullet in his lung seems to disappear the moment he zeroes in on the predator and the two figures in the corner.  The fear he feels watching as the tiger approaches Morse with complete helplessness is not something Thursday would wish on anyone.  Milo, just a babe in his mother’s arms, is red-faced and bawling while Julia clutches him closer to her.  An instinctual terror stabs into Thursday’s brain and nearly short-circuits all rational thought when the tiger lets out a rasping, bubbling roar.

 

“When it jumps, you run,” Morse’s voice rings out desperately.  There is no hope to be found in remaining quiet, therefore his voice, unsteady and full of finality, is loud in an unfamiliar way.

 

Julia trembles behind Morse and shouts, “What?”

 

“ _When it jumps, you run!_ ” 

 

“No!”

 

The tiger’s muscles bunch and it leaps forward.  “Morse!”  Thursday’s eyes are wide open as he stands and watches the beast descend upon the man he considers his son.  A shot rings out – Bright is suddenly standing before him, hands steady on the rifle, but the bullet drives into the tiger’s side, and it’s not enough to completely knock it off course.  Its determination to tear into its prey is enough to carry it the rest of the way and straight into Morse. 

 

Branches and leaves crunching unbearably loudly, they fall back through the tall bushes as Julia shrieks and stumbles into the arms of her brother.  Slowed down but not felled, the tiger swipes its monstrous paws across Morse’s thin arms.  Thursday is left rooted to the spot while the scene unfolds like a hellish nightmare.  He can’t tear his eyes off of the tiger collapsing on top of Morse when Bright fires another bullet, this time landing it straight into the tiger’s brain.

 

Blood sprays violently against the hedges that still stand on either side of the two bodies.  The second gunshot is enough to shock Thursday away from his spot; he sprints across the distance separating him and Morse in seconds.  The scene is already a deranged one with Julia sobbing and Strange yelling for paramedics and it only gets worse when he sees the amount of blood covering Morse.

 

The first thing Thursday does is roll the beast off of Morse.  And then he clenches his jaw against the wave of nausea that threatens to upend the contents of his stomach at the sight of the gashes torn into the side of Morse’s body.  Yet another jolt of horror has Thursday falling to his knees when he sees that Morse’s eyes are open and his fingers are twitching on the grass.

 

“Christ,” Thursday feels breathless, like a rookie all over again.  “Christ, Morse.”  He places a shaking hand on Morse’s cheek and uses the other to fruitlessly press down on the very middle of the long gashes.  “Look at me, Morse.  Endeavour!”  At the sound of his first name, Morse’s eyes flutter and he finally makes eye contact with Thursday.  Terror and pain swirl around in his eyes.  His breathing is shallow and quick and he wheezes out a fragment of an inaudible sentence.  “Where are the paramedics?!”

 

The tiger’s claws had sunken the deepest into Morse’s side, right into the middle of his ribs.  By comparison, the deep, ragged cuts on Morse’s cheek where the claws first made contact seem like grazes.  Blood pumps out of Morse’s body from under Thursday’s fingers as fast as if his hand weren’t present. 

 

It had only been a split second.  Just the span of a moment between one shot and the next.  Now Morse lies on the grass split open like prey, eyes rolling into the back of his head from the pain no doubt shattering all notions of rationality.  Thursday taps his cheek in an attempt to keep his focus above the gore.  He had most certainly hit his head on the way down, branches snagging on his suit – and there’s no use mourning it because the blood is already far too thick in the material – and Thursday doesn’t want to move him until the paramedics deem it safe.

 

Suddenly, Morse’s hand lands on Thursday’s neck.  The constable looks up at him with wide, glazed eyes.  Specks of blood landed on the other untouched cheek from the force with which the tiger sliced into his left cheek.  As Morse looks up at him with wavering lucidity, Thursday knows that the image of the naïve, unlikely-copper would be dashed by the scars sure to appear on Morse’s young face.

 

Morse’s lips move but no sound comes from his mouth.  Strange waves over the paramedics that had probably just torn through the bushes to avoid wasting precious time.  Thursday leans in closer even as the paramedics ask him to move away.  His hand stays firmly planted on the gushing wound threatening to take Morse from him. 

 

“J...Juli?  ‘Lia?”  Morse’s breath blows over Thursday’s ears.  

 

Stricken, Thursday finally pulls back, but only just enough for the paramedics to pull Morse onto a stretcher.  “She’s okay, lad.  She’s fine.”  He finds himself speechless but for the simple reassurance that Julia and her child are intact.  He stands and watches the stretcher carrying his constable exit the maze at a frantic pace.  A breeze blows the stray strands of hair on his face away and makes his hands tremble when he registers the layer of blood covering every inch of them up to his wrist.  Thursday curses and clenches his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into his palm and forces himself to be still. 

 

“Sir.”  Trewlove lightly taps his shoulder and holds out a cream-colored handkerchief.  He stares at it for a second longer than what is considered healthy before thanking her quietly and does his best to clean his hands of the crimson red covering them.  By the time he’s done, there’s still blood underneath his nails and the handkerchief has become a rusty color.  Then, for seemingly no reason at all, Thursday’s brain conjures up the image of Morse lying naked on DeBryn’s table. 

 

“Go home, Thursday,” Bright says from in front of him.  It seems everyone has been moving around him, albeit quite slowly, without him noticing.  Thursday nearly shakes his head but he can’t get the image of Morse’s bloodless body being tended to methodically by a faceless pathologist who couldn’t even begin to understand the intelligence that the shell of a man used to hold.  He nods instead and makes his way through the holes in the bushes, refusing to entertain the ridiculous scenario of Morse _dying_ before reaching the age of 30. 

 

There are things to take care of.  Interrogating Georgina Mortmaigne, overseeing that Craven’s body is taken to the pathologist’s, making sure everyone else is intact.  But he’ll leave that for someone else for once.  He’ll be of no help bumbling around, shaking like a copper seeing his first corpse, so he accepts Trewlove’s offer to take him home and then to the hospital. 

 

“I’m pretty shaken up myself,” she admits, ducking into the Jaguar, “It’s probably not going to be a while before they let us see Morse but I can’t help wanting to at least be in the waiting room.” 

 

Thursday hums.  “He’ll be alright.  Morse has endured far too much to let this take him down.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this chapter. Believe me, I ran into some infuriating crap. Check my tumblr if you want to know how hard this chapter was to get through LMAO. (whumpisawonderfulthing.tumblr.com) Anyway, I love the headcanon trans!Morse (bc im trans) so try and catch that tiny little hint in there ;D
> 
> ENJOY!

Pulling away from the Mortmaigne residence, Thursday’s mind stays steadfastly on the image of Morse’s side torn open.  It had been burned into his mind and he knows it’s not something he’ll forget for many years, if at all.  To see Morse that close to death was jarring; yes, he’s been hurt before, but even the gunshot wound hadn’t been overly dangerous.  It had been a bullet to the hip that had been treated fairly quickly by DeBryn, someone he trusts to help Morse, and the lad had felt strong enough to face his father’s death all in the same day. 

 

Not to say that Morse is ordinary in any way.  He's odd for a variety of reasons, one of which being his fortitude for a man that eats so little and barely takes care of himself.  Case after case, he gets lost in the puzzle, the people, tragedy, death.  The self-negligence is emotional, too  - his deep reluctance to show vulnerability if at all possible eats away at him.  Or perhaps it’s not vulnerability that he detests but comfort that he is afraid to accept.  Either way, he’s difficult to approach when in times of weakness.  He gets lost amidst the rejection of his peers and the battle between saving face, according to social norms, and letting his intelligence flex and run wild where it is right to.

 

Deep in his thoughts, Thursday barely realizes they've pulled up to his home.  He only climbs out of the Jaguar when Trewlove declines his invitation inside.  After what happened in the maze, it’s obvious she needs some time to gather herself.  Fred hopes he can do the same in the safety of his home.  With mechanical steps, he walks to his door and Trewlove stares at her knuckles where they grip the steering wheel.  

 

The concrete makes his steps louder than they should be.  Looking up, he sees the sky is clear and the sun is still hanging quite high.  The juxtaposition of Morse’s wounds plastered to his mind and the beautiful, ordinary day is so disorienting he doesn’t even remember reaching the door.

 

After a stagnant moment, Thursday absentmindedly fishes his keys out of his coat.  A slow breeze brushes against him, his hand feeling colder than the rest of him.  Looking down at the doorknob and keyhole, the drying blood under his nails is vivid.  For another slow, molasses-covered second, Thursday stares with increasing detachedness at the remnants of Morse’s own blood.  Step by step, his professionalism is returning.

 

He jams the key into its slot and opens the door, closing it behind him but not locking it.  Surprisingly, Win calls his name from the kitchen.

 

“Already home?”  She pokes her head out of the kitchen and, at the sight of her husband covered in blood, coming striding down the hallway.  With a dish towel in her hand, she splays her fingers over his chest and asks, “Oh, God!  What- what- are you hurt?”

 

"You're back early,” He says faintly, still trying to sink back into his own skin, “Don’t worry, Win, it’s not mine.  It’s not mine.  It’s Morse’s.”

 

Her look of worry doesn’t lighten in the slightest.  Somehow, it reassures Thursday.  It must be the fact that Win worries over Morse, too, because that man desperately needs people who truly care about him.  It's hard to deal with Morse's hardships as an empathetic friend alone.  When it comes to Morse, he has to hold back his fatherly instincts on the daily.  _Put on a coat, you'll catch a cold,_ he can’t say, nor, _It’s too dangerous._   

 

Clutching the small towel to her chest, Win steps back from her examination.  “I had a dreadful feeling that something happened.  Joan and I got back only about a half hour before you did.  Will he be okay?”

 

“I don’t know, Win.  They’ve taken him to hospital.  I’m just here to clean up before going to see what the doctors have to say.”

 

“I’ll go with you.  Let me get my purse.  Oh, don't tell me you drove like that, Fred.”

 

"Shirley Trewlove did me the favor.  She and Morse get along, so she's going to the hospital anyway."

 

From the stairs, Joan appears.  She looks a little pale – undoubtedly from listening in.  “I want to go, too, Dad.”  Above her by one stair, Sam sticks his head beside hers and nods along.

 

With a nod of acceptance, Thursday makes his way to the bathroom.  “Just give me a minute.”  Despite the handkerchief Trewlove had offered him, his hands still felt grimy from the residue.  He turns the knob and a solid stream of cold water comes out.  Under the spray, he can forget the feeling of hot, thick blood welling up from Morse’s veins and slipping from under his fingers onto the grass.  With the cold water and vigorous scrubbing, Thursday erases the last of the evidence that he’d been completely useless in the maze.  When Morse had needed him, when he’d voluntarily stood before a literal tiger to protect a woman and her child, Thursday hadn’t been there.  He feels confident in the sentiment that they had _all_ failed Morse. 

 

It’s nothing unusual, though.  And that in itself is a tragedy.

 

But Fred doesn’t have time to wallow in his fresh regrets.  He turns the knob again and stops the stream.  Inspecting his hands, he makes sure they won’t stain the hand towel before he dries them.  From there he goes to his bedroom to pick a new shirt.  The feeling of the stained fabric against his skin is beginning to grate on him enough to steal away his attention.  He has enough thoughts to juggle at the moment and he doesn’t think any of the hospital staff or patients would very much appreciate seeing him covered in blood.

 

Once he’s in a fresh button-up shirt, Thursday feels ready for the bombardment of questions sure to come in the car.  He comes down the stairs feeling his nerves begin to fray again at the aspect of seeing Morse held together by sutures.

 

(A tiny voice in his mind tells him to be more worried at the aspect of seeing him covered by a sheet.  He crushes it.)

 

Trewlove awaits in the car looking significantly more put-together than when he had exited the car.  Win puts her purse, which is stuffed with items needed for proper fussing, on Sam’s lap after settling in at the opposite side.  He closes the door once Joan is situated in her seat and cracks a tiny smile at Sam’s quiet complaint that his mother’s bag is crushing him.

 

Trewlove shoots him a tiny smile, comprised completely of one crooked corner of the mouth.  “Shirley Trewlove,” she says.  Once introductions are over, the car’s atmosphere becomes a tad more stifling.  She starts the engine and starts for the hospital.  The edge that Thursday had just smoothed down returned nearly full-force.  The need to see Morse alive wars with the instinct to stay away until he’s been put back together.  Going to the hospital, facing the consequences of today’s events – it means risking seeing Morse dead.  At the moment, in the car, driving down the cobblestone road under the bright blue sky, they exist in a Schrodinger’s box in which Morse is both alive and dead.  He doesn’t want to open the box.  But Thursday has to choose between this limbo and knowing for sure the fate of his constable and at that thought, he knows it’s better to confirm than to remain unaware.

 

“Dad,” Joan starts, “What happened?”

 

Sam’s arm sits across Joan’s shoulders.  Just because they bicker and poke fun at each other doesn’t mean they aren’t close.  Sam was always a great older brother, if not a mischievous one.  “Did you…did you catch the killer?”

 

Thursday glances back at his wife and children and takes a quick breath to steady himself.  “It wasn’t a standard case.  You may or may not believe me when I tell you this, but trust me when I tell you it is the whole truth.”  Only once all three of them have nodded their acceptance, albeit hesitantly, does he continue.  “Morse was mauled by a tiger about an hour ago.  The killer wasn’t human at all, but the driving force behind the killings was a woman named Georgina Mortmaigne.”

 

“Oh, God.”  Joan sounds gutted, but not disbelieving.  “How- how bad was it?”

 

The answer lodges itself in his throat.  It’s silent while he tries to come up with a response that isn’t, _If I had looked closely, I may have been able to see his ribs_.  It’s not something to tell his daughter.  But the temptation to admit it is significant.  The fact feels like a secret trying to bust out of his chest.  He needs to tell someone else, to have someone witness what he feels about the man he considers his third child having nearly been killed before his very eyes today.  Instead, Trewlove helps him maintain rationality.

 

“It was bad.  But Morse was still breathing and awake when the paramedics got to him.”  Trewlove speaks gently but it’s obvious she isn’t going to sugar-coat it.

 

“He was awake…” Win breathes.  “Oh, Morse.”

 

“I know it sounds terrible, Mrs. Thursday, but I truly believe it’s a good sign.”

 

The parking lot of the hospital approaches.  “I hope so,” Sam murmurs.  He sounds young and, if Thursday had the strength to look away from the building, he certainly would see both Joan and Sam looking quite young, too.  The car rounds the entrance to the lot and Trewlove doesn’t waste any time in looking for a spot.  She takes the turns sharp, pulls into the nearest open spot in one maneuver, and is opening the door only a half second after turning off the car.

 

* * *

 

The receptionist at the front desk directs them, blandly, to the waiting room.  The stagnation is stifling after tearing into the parking lot so animatedly.  There is no doctor to greet them with much-needed information, either, so the only thing left to do is _wait_.  In the waiting room. 

 

Patience comes easily to Trewlove for a variety of reasons, like workplace politics and rampant sexism.  For Win and Fred Thursday, raising two children does force one to be able to slow down.  Joan and Sam in all their youth have a more distinctive impatience around them and within their bouncing legs and frequent look-arounds.  But the cold air coming in from the air conditioning slows all of their movements, leaving only their minds racing.  There is no action to be taken anymore.  Morse’s life is quite literally in the hands of the doctors. 

 

The waiting room was nearly empty before the Thursdays arrived.  Rows of freezing plastic chairs hold a young woman on one side of the room and a middle-aged man on the other.  The island of chairs nearly bisecting the room now holds Win, Joan, Sam, Fred, and Shirley.  With nothing else to do, Shirley lets her mind wander.

 

Being a relatively new addition to the station doesn’t mean Trewlove hasn’t already realized Morse’s status within it.  Never too far from Thursday, but not on Morse’s part; it’s Fred’s fatherly instinct that has him pulling Morse to him when he deems necessary.  Like a father strolling behind his child with a word here or there and maybe a strong hand to keep him from falling in a river while admiring the fish and rocks. 

 

Morse’s sharp wit and absolutely nonexistent need to impress or adhere to pleasantries make him an outsider.  His priority is always solving the crime, finishing the puzzle, and obtaining justice for the people left behind.  Everything about him is unusual – even his physical appearance is hard to understand.  It’s like seeing a poet that lived a century ago walking around in an ill-fitting suit with an intangible cloud of melancholy, sorrow, and distance clinging to him.  That such a man be a police officer sounds like the punchline of a joke or a melancholy poem.

 

Her bleak train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of a doctor.  “Endeavour’s family?  I am Dr. Torres.”

 

Of course, his first name must also be unusual.

 

“Yes,” Thursday says, “Closest thing to it.”  He stands, restless, and can’t seem to decide where his hands should go.  “How is he?”

 

Dr. Torres laces his fingers together, posture carefully loose.  “Endeavour is no longer in critical danger.  The deadliest thing about this sort of injury is blood loss – the possibility of the claws hitting an artery.  Thankfully, Endeavour was lucky enough to dodge that bullet, so to speak.  The next thing we’ll have to watch out for is infection.  Currently, we are suturing his wounds.  We will dress them and put Endeavour on antibiotics to try and evade an infection brought on by bacteria on the tiger’s claws.  I believe that there is a good chance infection has already set in, in which case, Endeavour’s body will have to fight that as well as heal the lacerations.”

 

“But you’re sure he’s out of the woods,” Thursday prods.  He looks less tense than before.

 

“Yes, as long as we can control the infection, he’ll be right as rain in a few weeks.  Sore and freshly scarred, but intact.  After he’s released, Endeavour will need to go through some physical therapy to regain some strength as well as be kept on light duties until there is no chance of reopening the wounds.”

 

“Thank God,” Mrs. Thursday says, “Thank God.”

 

Nodding, Thursday thanks Dr. Torres.  The doctor excuses himself and Thursday sits back down, looking oddly exhausted for a man that has been sitting for some time.  But Shirley understands why – she can see the naked concern in his eyes, the tension still present in his shoulders – and imagines she can relate.  Morse is going to hate going back on light duties and she has no doubt that the scars won’t help his recovery, both of the mind and body.  But he’s alive.  And that’s what matters.

 

Suddenly, Shirley registers the name the doctor used.  “Endeavour,” she can’t help but say.  “What a lovely name.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, a nurse comes out of the doors barring them from the OR.  She’s young, and her smile comes easily.  “You must be Endeavour’s family.  We’ve finished up, so you can come see him, but only one at a time, please.  He’s coming up from anesthesia and the less stress possible, the better.”

 

Thursday stands.  He has no doubt no one will protest if he goes first.  He nods and the nurse turns to show him the way to Morse’s room.  “He prefers ‘Morse’, ma’am.”

 

“Of course.  Morse.  He has a very nice first name, though.”

 

“I’ve tried telling him as much but he wouldn’t accept it.  Ah, nurse—”

 

“Please, call me Tracy.”  They stop in front of a door.  Thursday can’t bring himself to look through the small window yet.  He’s afraid of what he’ll find.

 

“Tracy.  Tell me, how…how is he?”

 

Sympathy flashes in her eyes.  With her hands lying loosely in front of the apron cinched at her waist, she tilts her head to look in the room.  Her curls bounce serenely when she looks back at him.  “I won’t lie to you.  The claws of an animal tear the flesh, and fresh sutures are no pretty sight, but we have dressed and bandaged them.  You won’t catch a glimpse of his wounds, sir.  Should you be present during a redressing, it might be hard to not avert your eyes.  Aside from that, there’s nothing to fear.”

 

He can’t quite shake off the trepidation but Morse is waiting for him.  There’s no excuse for not being there.  And he’s sick of feeling like a damn rookie – he’s seen corpses in worse shape than Morse.  With that in mind, the opens the door to the room and strides in with silent footsteps.  The room is much more welcoming than the cold corridor.  Sunlight floods through the half-open blinds and the walls are a soft blue, easy on the eyes.  It’s a small room with only two beds and the other is vacant, so it’s only Morse and Thursday.

 

Morse lies in his bed, limbs neatly arranged, the bed sheets pulled up to his waist.  Most of his left torso is bandaged with pristine white gauze and the left side of his face is bandaged as well.  He could nearly pass for a mummy on Halloween, something Thursday is sure Morse wouldn’t appreciate hearing.  Thursday takes the last few steps forward and sinks into the plastic chair beside the bed.  Morse’s hair is spread across his pillow, the sunlight making it glow.  His face is slack and free of pain.  On the other side of the bed is an IV stand with a clear bag.  Liquid drips into the slim tube that stops at the needle taped to the inside of his elbow.  Antibiotics, Thursday muses, and possibly painkillers.  It’s not his job to fuss over that, though.  And Morse’s eyelashes have begun to flutter.

 

“Morse?”

 

For another long moment, Morse blinks sluggishly.  His head rolls toward Thursday.  His eyes are barely open, confusion swimming in what Thursday can see, but no pain is obvious on his face.  A scratchy, low noise is all Morse can produce. 

 

“I’m here, Morse.  It’s Thursday- Fred, I mean.  You’re okay.  We’re in the hospital.  Just sleep, Morse.”  Unable to stop himself, Thursday curls his hand around Morse’s limp palm.  Morse’s eyes slide closed again, and just before he relaxes into the bed again, his fingers just barely squeeze Thursday’s hand.  “You’re going to be just fine,” Thursday says, and he finally believes it.

 

* * *

 

_Sunlight, unburdened by clouds, blankets the labyrinth and those lurking within.  Morse slinks past the sea of leaves rustling beside him in the forgettable breeze.  Terror sits heavy on his shoulders, pulling him forward onto the tips of his toes, his heels barely putting pressure on the grass.  In the maze with a tiger, Morse is the prey, and every turn around a corner could mean being attacked.  To be attacked by a starving beast confused by its surroundings and having already killed others much more innocent than him means certain death.  Morse’s breath rattles in his lungs, and though he is trying to be completely silent, his heartbeat roars in his ears – loud enough that he feels paranoia biting at his heels.  What if his own pulse is covering the sound of a tiger's paws creeping over the grass in its stalk?_

_The sunlight floods around him and in his eyes.  At once, he’s at the heart of the maze, and Julia and her baby are huddled behind him.  Desperate, Morse pushes her further back into the bush, eyes following the tiger on its path towards his vulnerable body._

_When it jumps, you run.  When it jumps, you run, when it jumps, when it jumps, when it jumps I’ll die a slow and bloody death in a labyrinth._

_And the tiger does jump, as a predator would when faced with prey or opponent.  In the blink of an eye, Morse is on the ground and his flesh, his bones, his veins, and his arteries are being torn open with a moment’s hesitation.  He has no chance to breathe therefore he can’t scream but it sits at the back of his mouth.  Heat explodes throughout his body and all up and down his left side erupts a pain like he’s never felt.  The bullet had been a puncture wound; the pain gripping half of his body is a ripping, white-hot, world-ending sensation with no end in sight._

Morse jolts out of his dream, breathing hard and frighteningly disoriented.  The first thing he registers is the overwhelming heat making his eyes burn and head throb.  Then, he realizes that there is a multitude of hands on him and various voices above him.

 

“—fever is climbing, Mr. Thursday please, we need space—”

 

“Morse!”

 

“He’s ripped his sutures, we need to—”

 

Aside from the immediate sensations, Morse could not open his eyes, and the feeling of blood leaking from his body is dragging him back to an unsettling sleep.  Though there is a pulling sensation on his torn flesh and the distinct sensation of his body opening back up, exhaustion washes over him quickly and violently intense and he is yet again unconscious. 

 

* * *

 

There had been a setback, of course.  Nothing with Morse is ever simple.  Smalltalk, deeper conversations, crime scenes, none of it could be breezed through.  And sometimes Thursday wishes that Morse was just a little more ordinary, but he knows that he would have to trade Morse’s true personality and intellect for normality.  That isn’t something he likes to contemplate.  Thursday knows there are plenty of people that have no such inhibitions, and worse than that, there are plenty of people that have told Morse point-blank that he would be much more tolerable if he acted a little less like himself.  Morse is a cycle – Thursday muses that when he was a child he must have been burdened with observational skills that made his peers jealous and as he got older, it only got worse.  Friends and enemies alike would tell him while looking him in the eye, _If only you were a little more normal.  If only you said the right words to the right people.  If only you used your brain for better things than making everyone else feel stupid._ These comments, these terrible thoughts spoken aloud without a moment’s consideration for the havoc wreaked on Morse’s self-esteem must have pushed the young man into himself.  It isn’t that big of a leap to assume that Morse, a man of defensive nature, took those comments and simply pushed back by becoming even more insufferable to the common folk.  So now nearly every interaction included verbal gymnastics on account of Morse’s endeavor, _hah_ , to never waver in his intelligence and hard-won personality.  It isn’t something that Thursday quite adores about the constable but he has accepted it and is getting closer to legitimately accepting Morse’s peculiarity.  

 

Right now he doesn’t appreciate it one bit.  Right now, he wishes Morse didn’t attract so much bad luck.  Watching Morse’s health plummet over the last day, about 24 hours after he had first seen Morse in his hospital bed had been nightmarish.  Nurses had flooded in while Thursday had been in the cafeteria buying a pathetic sandwich.  He’d come back to Morse weakly thrashing around on the bed with blood-stained sheets tangling around his limbs and nurses shooting rapid-fire jargon at each other.  The only thing Thursday picked out of their conversation is that Morse ripped his stitches and that his fever had gotten far too high.

 

Yes, his temperature had been hovering at a dangerous degree while Thursday sat next to him and butchered some poetry from a well-loved book he’d picked up from Morse’s home.  But he hadn’t expected such a sight, he hadn’t been prepared.

 

That had been about two hours ago.  He had been let back in the room under strict instructions not to bother Morse.  Thursday chose to poke his head in, venture inside and leave the poetry book on Morse’s bedside table and instead told Win to go ahead and take the time they’ve been allowed to fuss over the young man.  The sandwich he’d inhaled without a second thought to the bland flavor hadn’t alleviated the headache plaguing him whatsoever.  There’s no way they’ll let him break the rules when Morse had just given them a scare so he’s ready to go home for a kip and some real food.

 

 ...

 

Inside, Win Thursday sighs and ever so gently brushes back the wild, bright curls from Morse’s forehead.  She winces internally when the heat radiating off of his forehead hits her palm despite not even touching his skin.  It’s a terrible thing that such a thin, lonely young man like Morse should be dealing with such things.  Win isn’t a nurse and there’s not much she can do to heal him or make it so that the world is just a bit kinder to him, but what she can do is make sure he isn’t alone.  Win can be kind to him, show him that just because she isn’t his mother that she won’t show motherly altruism to him, perhaps even make him feel safe away from family and in a city that means death and tragedy to him.  So she picks up the book that Fred left and during the time that the hospital allows her, she reads to him quietly and holds his hand and when her time is up, she leans down to kiss the crown of his head.

 

* * *

 

Waking this time is not so eventful.  With the sunrise comes a familiar feeling, a skin he slips into, already feeling grey even as his eyes peel open for the first time in what must be hours.  To be alone is an art that Morse has mastered out of necessity and habit.  Now, when a bleak ceiling greets him, he categorizes sensations and moves on.  He’s alone in the mornings and nights which means he takes care of his wounds without anyone’s help and so far he’s lived just fine.  It feels odd to be in a hospital – he feels removed.  From what, he’s not certain.  Nothing is really certain.  The pain sunken into the left side of his body is stinging but smudged.  His chest aches in a way he fucking loathes; it’s familiar, but Morse had worked so hard to tear it up and push it down and lock it into a tiny box and a thousand other metaphors to stuff this insignificant, suffocating, _crushing_  loneliness.

 

Removed from his barriers and armor of arias and intoxication, Morse is defenseless to the feeling of claws slicing down from the middle of his cheek down to his hip and gripping his chest.  The beeping of his heart monitor speeds up a bit though apparently not enough to alert a nurse.  He could’ve died.  He’s going to die alone.  One day.  Like now, when he’s alone, staring at the ceiling without having blinked in the last few minutes.

 

Sunlight is coming through the half-open blinds.  Soft in a way his mother used to love. She always woke up early just to catch the rays that looked half-formed, like newly born chicks with down instead of feathers.  Eggshell yellow isn’t impressive, quite the opposite, but Morse loves it in a way he won’t allow himself to love others.

 

Morse’s right hand jerks off the bed before he can slowly assess what movement tugs on the broken skin.  Nothing hurts, thankfully, not any more than it should.  His hand continues its path to cover his eyes.  A moment of weakness – just one, just one – alone in the hospital is fine.  Morse’s job keeps him from letting emotions overcome him but he is constantly full to the brim of all sorts of feelings.  Usually feelings he can’t describe in one sentence.  Morse is, at any given moment, so emotionally overwhelmed, that it could take all day to articulate them in his notebook.  It’s things like the eggshell yellow, the weak cage of his ribs just barely holding back the loneliness, it’s his nature that keeps him so separate from others.  At this point, Morse just prefers to hold it all back and let it go in moments like these with his hand over his eyes and his mouth violently downturned.  It’s not worth it trying to communicate with his peers.  He’s tried – reciting poetry seemed like a good way to use someone else’s words to explain himself, and when that was met with distaste, simple words for common emotions, but it’s just not worth it.

 

And then footsteps sound outside the door so his hand slips off his eyes and the moment is over.  And, as usual, he doesn’t feel any lighter.  That is until he turns his head and sees Joan Thursday and her father.  The clack of her heels on the floor stops abruptly when they make eye contact. 

 

“Oh,” is the noise she makes.

 

“Morse,” Fred says, “Welcome back.”  The two of them approach the bedside with bright eyes, the shared blood stark in their mannerism.  Without looking, both Thursdays pull up two of the four plastic chairs and take a seat in a synchronized fashion.  It pulls a smile from Morse.  “Welcome back,” he says again, earnest and radiating relief.

 

“You scared me,” she jokes, “Only you would…would get attacked by a tiger in the middle of Oxford, Morse.  Only you.”  By the end of it, Joan is looking as breathless as Fred, and he knows he really worried them.  The indescribable loneliness threatens to whisper in his ear, _You’ve messed up.  They don’t actually care about you.  Watch them leave you.  You made them worry._   Contradicting ideas of worthlessness and incompetence war in the back of his admittedly foggy mind.  Morse takes the image of the ever-vibrant Joan and Fred’s weary, fatherly smile and smothers the ridiculous notions that he’s disappointed them and that they’re going to desert him at the first chance. 

 

With a hoarse voice, he responds, “Not my fault it was a tiger.”

 

Joan bursts into hospital-appropriate laughter, which, compared to the heart monitor, sounds like little bells.  On her left, Fred shakes his head good-naturedly and reaches out to pat Morse’s shoulder but realizes halfway there that his palm would fall on tightly-wrapped bandages.  Morse's mood drops when his hand stutters and falls back to his lap.

 

At the darkening of his superior’s eyes, Morse suddenly falls back into the aches and pains he’d first pushed away.  There’s a tightness to his skin that he knows means deep gashes held together by deep suturing. 

 

“Are you- does anything…hurt?”  Joan asks softly. 

 

Morse knows that without the morphine drip, he’d be nearly unconscious from the pain.  Right now, his head is swimming and things are fuzzy, but when he gets out of the hospital things will get worse.  He may not be a doctor but even Morse knows that wounds like these will scar.  Much like Georgina’s when she was a child.  And right now, lying in the soft sheets, Morse can perfectly picture the tiger’s eyes just before its body and claws slammed into him.  The image becomes clearer the longer he allows it to, and suddenly he’s back in the labyrinth with his arms above his head, sunlight in his eyes, knocked-down bushes rough against his neck, and a fully grown tiger tearing his arms to ribbons to try to get to his carotid.

 

“Morse.”  Fred’s voice calls him back to the bed.  The heart monitor is infuriating.  Morse turns to glare at it, eyes wide and head full of an almighty terror.  “It’s alright.”

 

It really isn’t, because Morse knows he’s not even going to be back on light duties for months.  He’ll have to drag himself through physical therapy, alone, take his painkillers without alcohol, alone, and be overly careful to avoid reopening wounds, alone.  If the solitude was killing Morse slowly before, being let out of the hospital will surely lead him to an early death.

 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says.  “They’ve given me the good stuff, so it doesn’t hurt.  What about Julia?  And the baby?”

 

“You saved them.  I could strangle you, but you saved them both and managed not to die.  Just barely, though.  I don’t ever want to see you do something like that again.”

 

He can’t promise and he doesn’t feel like lying.  Instead, he turns his head back and looks him in the eyes.  “Could you get me a glass of water?  I’m sick of lying down.”

 

At that, Joan deems it safe to re-enter the conversation.  “Let me help you sit up, then.  Careful, now.  I’m pretty sure the ward sister will kill Dad and I if you bust a stitch.

 

Fred stands and leaves his hat on his chair in search of water.  The sun outside has strengthened, now a warmer color, and fills the whole room. Morse’s body feels heavy but the glass of water is refreshing and leaves him hungry in more ways than one.  His stomach growls lowly, a reminder that he’s been unconscious and therefore incapable of eating, and boredom is already setting in even with two much-needed visitors.  He wants his records and poetry books.  He wants to be home and clothed and healed but no matter what he wants, nothing is going to change right now.  And, in a way, he needs to be alone.

 

“I brought these for you.  I thought it would be better to use your key than to chase you down the halls once you’ve gone insane from sheer boredom.”  Fred is gruff again, incredibly familiar, as he holds out three of Morse’s well-loved poetry books.

 

“And I brought you some pajamas and a blanket from home.  I’m sure you’d much rather have your own stuff with you while you recover.”  Joan spreads a dark blue blanket over the bed.

 

Perhaps he doesn’t need to be alone just yet, then.  The Thursday’s thoughtfulness is astounding.  Even this simple gesture is enough to have his heart feeling a few shades later.  Equipped with a few comfort items and the certainty of visitors, Morse feels better.  Not completely, but enough that his thoughts aren’t so large and daunting. 

 

* * *

 

A month and a half later, Morse stands in front of his mirror.  It’s been a while since he’s looked at himself in a mirror without somehow covering the scars.  First, it was bandages, an easy excuse: for his health, the scars needed to be covered.  Then, weeks later, when they finally took the stitches out, Morse kept himself bundled in turtlenecks and high-collared coats gifted by an ever fussing Mrs. Thursday. 

 

He’s not sure what he’ll find when he looks at himself.  It could be a logical succession, like a crystal clear flashback because of the stark reminder of what happened.  It could be he feels nothing other than dissociation from his body – it wouldn’t be the first time.  But now there are no more excuses for not facing the consequences of the tiger’s claws.  Morse has been on the edge of the decision for weeks now and it’s going to happen eventually.  At this point, he tells himself, stalling will only be an admission of weakness, of cowardice. 

 

So, he steps out of the shower and he dries off, clutching a towel to his thin hips.  Morse walks barefoot through his dimly lit home, feeling the end of the day in his back, knees, and in the headache throbbing in his temples.  Cold air brushes against his mostly-naked body while he slides a record out of a well-loved sleeve and sets it on the record player.  He lets the music wash over him before making his way to the drawer holding boxers and slips a pair on with as little bending over as possible.  His doctor and the physical therapist had explained the intersecting fibers and loss of flexibility that would keep him from stretching to his previous full extent.  It's something that, while it doesn’t surprise him anymore, is so frustrating that it could bring tears to his eyes on a bad day.

 

With one ritual done and familiar music playing, he feels just grounded enough to step in front of the mirror.  He meets his own eyes, expression staying quite the same, and then lets his gaze travel down to his naked torso.  He’s gotten even skinnier than before, ribs sticking out alarmingly and shoulders sharp enough that he has no doubt Mrs. Thursday will be feeding him enough to sustain a small army as soon as she sees him without a winter coat. 

 

Aside from that, the biggest change is, obviously, the vivid red and raised scars.  The ones on his face are completely separated from the scars starting just under his collar bone.  The tiger’s claws had just barely made contact halfway down his left cheek; the scars on his face aren’t as jagged or thick as the ones on his body but do contrast intensely against his pale skin. 

 

Even though Morse wasn't exactly bragging about his slight frame and joints that stick out, the scars are obvious and ugly.  He looks different now.  There's physical evidence of what happened and he'll never look at himself in the mirror the same again.  He traces the middle scar which is the worst of the three with a couple of fingers.  Even without applying pressure, he can feel every detail – the skin is rough and touch feels different than it does on regular skin. 

 

Behind him, Morse glances at his tidy room.  He’s never had trouble traversing the messy terrain, darting around discarded records, papers, book, and pieces of clothing.  Fresh out of the hospital, he’d had to clean up for the sake of functionality because of the newly-limited mobility.  Morse takes a deep breath in and feels his scars pull on the skin surrounding them.  They refuse to give way.  He has to force himself through the last little bit of the inhale.  The tightness of his chest threatens to take the satisfaction of a full breath but he muscles through, wincing when it stretches the inflexible skin just a bit too far.  This is the least of his troubles.  What bothers him most is not being able to bend too far in any direction or twist around.  Morse may not be the most athletic but even he will admit that he runs around Oxford more than the average constable.  It would be a nuisance to be in the middle of a chase or a fight, extend a little too far to the right, and suddenly be in too much pain to think straight.

 

He’s regained most of his strength, at least.  Morse begins tracing the scars again, an unconscious decision, this time starting at the crest of his hip bone where the claws had left his body.  His fingers skip over the raised skin quicker this time.  He’s lost between trying to actively process his wounds, the event, and the consequences as his physical therapist wants him to do naturally, and losing himself in the simple movements and tactile stimulus.  Next, without any particular reason or thought, he his left arm over his chest and skims his right fingers over the bundle of crisscrossing scars covering half of his forearm.  If he hadn’t raised his arms on instinct, the tiger would have had easy access to his neck.  Morse moves over to the other arm slowly, the raised scars not much different from the other arm.  If lined up correctly, the scars show the path of the tiger's claws down his arm.

 

Morse’s breath hitches in a huge yawn.  Vaguely, he wonders what his future lovers will think about the scars.  Maybe he’ll never sleep with anyone ever again due to a sudden, tragic accident.  A drunk driver could kill him tomorrow.  And he’s never been one to take a dip in the pool for fun – people always tell him to eat more - so maybe no one will ever see these scars.  All the better to avoid pity and rumors.  No one ever has to know what happened.  Neither his face nor his name was featured in the article about the policeman mauled by a tiger in the middle of Oxford.  Morse slips under the chilled sheets and pulls a blanket over himself, bundling the extra fabric against his chest.  No one will know what happened to him a month and a half ago and he’ll be able to forget it, bury it under a pile of paperwork and cases, crush the remaining memories into the back of his mind to make room for contemplating lines of poetry.  Morse is fine – obviously, he’s fine, he just examined the scars left behind by the tiger without having a huge breakdown.  He isn’t drowning in the midst of a flashback.  So he doesn’t have to go to a therapist as his doctor recommended, and he doesn’t have to lie to the Thursdays when they ask how he’s feeling.  He’s fine.  It’s like it never even happened.  Like this, he can even pretend the scars aren't there.

 

It never happened.  He’s fine.  He's whole.

 

* * *

 

There’s toast, scrambled eggs, cheese to slice, jam, orange and apple juice, and biscuits laid out on the table.  Morse sits between Joan and Sam, staring down at his plate, listening to the conversation, and wondering how he went from eating next to nothing every morning to this feast.  Alone in his cramped, cold kitchen, he would sometimes toast some bread to go with his tea and then he’d be off to work.  What is really astounding is how lively his mornings are now.  He doesn’t make it in time every morning but Win – after a while, the _Mrs. Thursday-Call-me-Win-dear_ had to stop – never failed to have a warm biscuit, slices of bacon, and an egg sandwich ready for him.  He’s put on five pounds since Fred started waving him into the Thursday house for breakfast. 

 

It’s ironic that something so good would happen to him only after the Mortmaigne case.  To be honest, it probably happened _because_ of the case.  The tiger had killed, Morse had pursued, and he was violently attacked, but from there he fell further until the only thing that could get him out was the temptation of connection.  Innocent, familial connection beckoned to him from the other side of the loneliness and, even if Morse had an excuse, even _if_ he wanted to resist for the sake of his own protection, he was at the end of his rope and far too weak to refuse.

 

Morse blinks and looks up when he feels four pairs of eyes on him.  They’re not very discreet, even though the conversation hasn’t stopped.  Morse clears his throat quietly and digs into his scrambled eggs. 

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Morse has absconded into the station bathroom.  It’s his first day back and he’s already nearly hyperventilating.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ There’s nothing to be nervous about.  But they all look at his left cheek where the tiger left the most obvious mark.  Strange, Jakes, Bright, they look at the scars and he can see memory in their eyes.  They perceive him and remember what he can’t – the moments right after – except Bright.  Bright, he sees Morse, and he’s completely inscrutable.  All he said was ‘welcome back’ and went back to his office. 

 

Morse curls his finger over the porcelain sink and looks in the mirror.  It’s just him.  A little pale but it’s just him, standing there, looking himself in the eye.  Three pink lines reach from his jaw to his cheek, the same three lines he’s been tracing with his eyes over and over for two months.  He follows the lines down to his suit.  The thicker scars are completely covered.  They can't see them.  He’s fine – _it’s just me_.  Nothing changed.  They see him differently but that's okay, it's not a big deal.  Just because he can't breathe as easily or move as freely doesn't mean he doesn't deserve this job anymore.  He's not _damaged_.

 

He's not broken.  He's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to leave a comment! It really shows your appreciation! And this chapter...physically hurt me to write. And you can come on down to my tumblr to give me some requests or just some love <3

**Author's Note:**

> There's some fluff and angst to come y'all. Also more whump. Hurt/comfort. The works.
> 
> Please remember to leave a comment! They encourage me to write faster/write at all. You can also drop me a suggestion, request, or whatever at my tumblr: whumpisawonderfulthing.tumblr.com


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